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AND 

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COACHING 

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** 

LKIGH  HUNT 

Tllf    , 


LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


■  ill)  BY 

MRS.  DONALD  KELLOGG 


'W 


1 


* 


i 


UUiB    LIUKAKY 


COACHES 
AND  COACHING 


BlK  love,  my  friends,  is  your  pass  to  the 
greatest,  the  purest,  and  the  most  perfect 
ire  that  God  has  prepared  for  His  creatures. 
I  tl  when  all  other  pleasures  fade.     It  will 

•upport    V"u    when    all    other    recreations     are 
It   will   last   you   until  your  death.     It 
will  make  your  hours  pleasant   to  you  as  long 
as  you  live. 


Leigh  Hunt 


COACHES 


COACHING 


Embellished 
with  pictures  by 
Paul  Hardy 


H.  M.  CALDWELL  CO. 
BOSTON 


ACCORDING  to  the  opinion  com- 
monly entertained  respecting  an 
author's  want  of  riches,  it  may  be 
allowed  us  to  say  that  we  retain  from 
childhood  a  considerable  notion  of  "  a 
ride  in  a  coach."  Nor  do  we  hesitate  to 
confess,  that  by  coach  we  especially  mean 
a  hired  one ;  from  the  equivocal  dignity 
of  the  post-chaise,  down  to  that  despised 
old  castaway,  the  hackney. 

It  is  true  that  the  carriage,  as  it  is  in- 
differently called  (as  if  nothing  less  genteel 
could  carry  any  one),  is  a  more  decided 
thing  than  the  chaise  ;  it  may  be  swifter 
even  than  the  mail,  leaves  the  stage  at  a 
still  greater  distance  in  every  respect,  and 
7 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

(forgetting  what  it  may  come  to  itself) 
darts  by  the  poor  old  lumbering  hackney 
with  immeasurable  contempt. 

It  rolls  with  a  prouder  ease  than  any 
other  vehicle.  It  is  full  of  cushions  and 
comfort ;  elegantly  coloured  inside  and 
out  ;  rich,  yet  neat ;  light  and  rapid,  yet 
substantial.  The  horses  seem  proud  to 
draw  it.  The  fat  and  fair-wigged  coach- 
man "  lends  his  sounding  lash,"  his  arm 
only  in  action  and  that  but  little,  his  body 
well  set  with  its  own  weight. 

The  footman,  in  the  pride  of  his  non- 
chalance, holding  by  the  straps  behind, 
and  glancing  down  sideways  betwixt  his 
cocked-hat  and  neckcloth,  stands  swinging 
from  cast  to  west  upon  his  springy  toes. 

The  horses  rush  along  amidst  their 
glancing  harness.  Spotted  dogs  leap  about 
them,  barking  with  a  princely  superfluity 
of  noise.  The  hammer-cloth  trembles 
through  all  its  fringe.  The  paint  flashes 
in  the  sun. 

We,  contemptuous  of  everything  less 
convenient,  bow  backwards  and  forwards 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


with  a  certain  indifferent  air  of  gentility, 
infinitely  predominant. 

Suddenly,  with  a  happy  mixture  of 
turbulence  and  truth,  the  carriage  dashes 
up  by  the  curb-stone  to  the  very  point 
desired,  and  stops  with  a  lordly  wilfulness 
of  decision.  The  coachman  looks  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  The  footman  is 
down  in  an  instant  ;  the  knocker  reverbe- 
rates into  the  farthest  corner  of  the  house  ; 
doors,  both  carriage  and  house,  are  open  ; 
— we  descend,  casting  a  matter-of-course 
eye  at  the  bystanders  ;  and  the  moment 
we  touch  the  pavement,  the  vehicle,  as  if 
conscious  of  what  it  has  carried,  and  re- 
lieved from  the  weight  of  our  importance, 
recovers  from  its  sidelong  inclination  with  a 
jerk,  tossing  and  panting,  as  it  were,  for  very 
breath,  like  the  proud  heads  of  the  horses. 

All  this,  it  must  be  owned,  is  very 
pretty  ;  but  it  is  also  gouty  and  super- 
fluous. It  is  too  convenient, — too  exact- 
ing,— too  exclusive.  We  must  get  too 
much  for  it,  and  lose  too  much  by  it.  fa 
plenty,  as  Ovid  says,  makes  us  poor.     We 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

Detther  have  it  in  the  republic  of  letters, 
nor  would  desire  it  in  any  less  Jacobinical 
state.  Horses,  as  many  as  you  please, 
provided  men  have  enough  to  eat  ;  hired 
coaches,  a  reasonable  number  : — but  health 
and  good-humour  at  all  events. 

Giga  and  curricles  are  things  less  ob- 
jectionable, because  they  cannot  be  so 
relied  upon  as  substitutes  for  exercise. 
Our  taste  in  them,  we  must  confess,  is  not 
genuine.  How  shall  we  own  it  ?  We 
like  to  be  driven,  instead  of  drive  ; — to 
read  or  look  about  us,  instead  of  keeping 
watch  on  a  horse's  head.  We  have  no 
relish  even  for  vehicles  of  this  description 
that  arc  not  safe.  Danger  is  a  good  thing 
tor  giving  a  fillip  to  a  man's  ideas  ;  but 
even  danger,  to  us,  must  come  recom- 
mended by  something  useful.  We  have 
no  ambition  to  have  Tandem  written  on 
our  tombstone. 

The    ]> pettiest  of  these  vehicles  is   the 

curricle,  which  is  also  the  safest.     There 

mething  worth  looking  at  in  the  pair 

.  v.  ith  that  sparkling  pole  of  steel 

10 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

r 

laid  across  them.     Tt  is  like  a  bar  of  music, 

comprising  their  harmonious  course. 

But  to  us,  even  gigs  are  but  a  sort  of 
unsuccessful  run  at  gentility.  The  driver, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes,  had  better  be 
on  the  horse.  Horseback  is  the  noblest 
way  of  being  carried  in  the  world.  It  is 
cheaper  than  any  other  mode  of  riding  ; 
it  is  common  to  all  ranks  ;  and  it  is  manly, 
graceful,  and  healthy.  The  handsomest 
mixture  of  danger  with  dignity,  in  the 
shape  of  a  carriage,  was  the  tall  phaeton 
with  its  yellow  wings.  We  remember 
looking  up  to  it  with  respect  in  our  child- 
hood, partly  for  its  loftiness,  partly  for  its 
name,  and  partly  for  the  show  it  makes  in 
the  prints  to  novels  of  that  period.  The 
most  gallant  figure  which  modern  driving 
ever  cut  was  in  the  person  of  a  late  Duke 
of  Hamilton  ;  of  whom  we  have  read  or 
heard  somewhere,  that  he  used  to  dash 
round  the  streets  of  Rome,  with  his  horses 
panting,  and  his  hounds  barking  about  his 
phaeton,  to  the  equal  fright  and  admiration 
of  the  Masters  of  the  World,  who  were 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

accustomed  to  witness  nothing  higher  than  ut 
I  lumbering  old  coach,  or  a  cardinal  on  a  I 
mule. 

A  post-chaise  involves  the  idea  of 
travelling,  which  in  the  company  of  those 
\\c  love  is  home  in  motion.  The  smooth 
running  along  the  road,  the  fresh  air,  the 
variety  of  scene,  the  leafy  roads,  the  burst- 
ing prospects,  the  clatter  through  a  town, 
the  gaping  gaze  of  a  village,  the  hearty 
appetite,  the  leisure  (your  chaise  waiting 
only  upon  your  own  movements),  even  the 
little  contradictions  to  home-comfort,  and 
the  expedients  upon  which  they  set  us,  all 
put  the  animal  spirits  at  work,  and  throw  a 
novelty  over  the  road  of  life. 

If  anything  could  grind  us  young  again, 
it  would  be  the  wheels  of  a  post-chaise. 
The  only  monotonous  sight  is  the  perpetual 
up-and-down  movement  of  the  postillion, 
who,  we  wish  exceedingly,  could  take  a 
chair.  His  occasional  retreat  to  the  bar 
which  occupies  the  place  of  a  box,  and 
his  affecting  to  sit  upon  it,  only  remind  us 
of  its  exquisite  want  of  accommodation. 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


ut  some  have  given  the  bar,  lately,  a 
rreptitious  squeeze  in  the  middle,  and 
attened  it  a  little  into  something  obliquely 
■sembling  an  inconvenient  seat. 

If  we  are  to  believe  the  merry  Columbus 
f  Down-Hall,  calashep,  now  almost  ob- 
)lete  for  any  purpose,  used  to  be  hired 
>r  travelling  occasions  a  hundred  years 
ack  ;  but  he  preferred  a  chariot  ;  and 
either  was  good.  Yet  see  how  plea- 
mtly  good  humour  rides  over  its  incon- 
eniences. 


'hen    answer'd    'Squire    Morley,    "  Pray  get    a 

calash, 
"hat  in  summer  may  burn,  and  in  winter  may 

splash  ; 

love  dirt  and  dust  ;  and  'tis  always  my  pleasure 
?o  take  with  me  much  of  the  soil  that  I  mea- 


Jut    Matthew    thought     better ;    for    Matthew 

thought  right, 
Vnd  hired  a  chariot  so  trim  and  so  tight, 
rhat  extremes  both  of  winter  and  summer  might 

pass  ; 
For  one  window  was  canvas,  the  other  was  glass. 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


up,"    quoth     friend     Matthew  ;     "  Pull 
down,"  quoth  friend  John  ; 

ill  be  both  hotter  and  colder  anon." 
Thus,  talking    and    scolding,    they    forward    did 

speed  ; 
And  Ralpho  paced  by  under  Newman  the  Swede. 

Into  an  old  inn  did  this  equipage  roll, 
At  .1  town  they  call  Hodson,  the  sign  of  the  Bull  } 
Near  a  nymph  with  an  urn  that  divides  the  high- 
way, 
And  into  a  puddle  throws  mother  of  tea. 

"Come  here,  my  sweet  landlady,  pray  how  d'ye 

do  ? 
Where  is  Cicely  so   cleanly,  and   Prudence,  and 

Sue? 
And  where  is  the  widow  that  dwelt  here  below  ? 
And  the  hostler  that  sung  about  eight  years  ago  ? 

And  where  is  your  sister,  so  mild  and  so  dear, 

voice  to    her  maids  like  a  trumpet  was 

clear  ?" 
"  By  my  troth,"  she  replies,  "you  grow  younger, 

I  think  : 
And   prav,    sir,    what   wine  does   the  gentleman 

drink  ? 

"Whynow  let  me  die,  sir,  or  live  upon  trust, 
It  I  know  to  which  question  to  answer  you  first  : 
things,   since   I  saw  you,   most    strangely 
have  varied  j 
The  hostler  is  hang'd,  and  the  widow  is  married. 

14 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


"And  Prue  left  a  child  for  the  parish  to  nurse, 
And  Cicely  went  oft'  with  a  gentleman's  purse  ; 
And  as  to  my  sister,  so  mild  and  so  dear, 
She   has   lain    in    the    churchyard    full    many  a 
year." 

11  Well  ;    peace    to   her    ashes  !     What    signifies 

grief  ? 
She  roasted  red  veal,  and  she  powder'd  lean  beef: 
Full  nicely  she  knew  to  cook  up  a  fine  dish  ; 
For  tough  were  her  pullets,  and  tender  her  fish." 

Prior. 

This  quotation  reminds  us  of  a  little 
poem  by  the  same  author,  entitled  the 
Secretary,  which,  as  it  is  short,  and  runs 
upon  chaise-wheels,  and  seems  to  have 
slipped  the  notice  it  deserves,  we  will  do 
ourselves  the  pleasure  of  adding.  It  was 
written  when  he  was  Secretary  of  Embassy 
at  the  Hague,  where  he  seems  to  have 
edified  the  Dutch  with  his  insisting  upon 
enjoying  himself.  The  astonishment  with 
which  the  good  Hollander  and  his  wife 
look  up  to  him  as  he  rides,  and  the  touch 
of  yawning  dialect  at  the  end,  are  ex- 
tremely pleasant. 

*5 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


**  While  with  labour  assiduous  due  pleasure  I  mix, 
And  in  one  day  atone  for  the  business  of  six, 
In  a  little  Dutch  chaise  on  a  Saturday  night, 
On  my  left  hand  my  Horace,  a  nymph  on  my 

right  : 
N     Memoirs  to  compose,  and  no  Post-boy  to 

move, 
That    on  Sunday   may  hinder  the   softness  ot 

love  ; 
For  her,  neither  visits,  nor  parties  at  tea, 

the  long-winded  cant  of  a  dull  Refugee  : 
This  night  and  the  next  shall  be  hers,  shall  be 

mine, — 
To  good  or  ill-fortune  the  third  we  resign  : 
Thus  scorning  the  world  and  superior  to  fate, 
I  drive  on  my  car  in  processional  state. 
So  with  Phia  through  Athens  Pisistratus  rode  ; 
Men  thought  her  Minerva,  and  him  a  new  god. 
Hut  why  should  I  stories  of  Athens   rehearse, 
Where  people  knew  love,  and  were  partial  to 

verse  ? 
Since   none    can    with    justice     my    pleasures 

oppose, 
In  Holland  half  drowned  in  interest  and  prose  ? 

1  .rceceand  past  ages  what  need  I  be  tried, 
When  the  Hague  and  the  present  are  both  on 

my  side  ? 
And  is  it  enough  for  the  joys  of  the  day, 
To  think  what  Anacreon  or  Sappho  would  say  ? 
When    good  Vandergoes,    and    his    provident 

16 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


As  they  gaze  on   my  triumph,  do  freely  allow, 
That,  search  all  the  province,  you'll   find   no 

man  dar  is 
So  blest  as  the  Englis/ien  Hcer  Secre  ar*  is." 

If  Prior  had  been  living  now  he  would 
have  found  the  greatest  want  of  travelling 
accommodation  in  a  country  for  whose 
more  serious  wants  we  have  to  answer, 
without  having  her  wit  to  help  us  to  an 
excuse.  There  is  a  story  told  of  an  Irish 
post-chaise,  the  occupier  of  which,  with- 
out quitting  it,  had  to  take  to  his  heels. 
It  was  going  down  hill  as  fast  as  wind 
and  the  impossibility  of  stopping  could 
make  it,  when  the  foot  passengers  ob- 
served a  couple  of  legs  underneath, 
emulating,  with  all  their  might,  the  rapi- 
dity of  the  wheels.  The  bottom  had 
come  out ;  and  the  gentleman  was  obliged 
to  run  for  his  life. 

We  must  relate  another  anecdote  of  an 
Irish  post-chaise,  merely  to  show  the 
natural  tendencies  of  the  people  to  be 
lawless  in  self-defence.  A  friend  of  ours, 
who  was  travelling  among  them,  used  to 

17 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

have  this  proposition  put  to  him  by  the 
postillion  whenever  he  approached  a  turn- 
pike— "  Plase  your  honour,  will  I  drive 
at  the  pike?"  The  pike  hung  loosely 
across  the  road.  Luckily,  the  rider  hap- 
pened to  be  of  as  lawless  a  turn  for  justice 
as  the  driver,  so  the  answer  was  always  a 
cordial  one — "  Oh  yes — drive  at  the 
pike."  The  pike  made  way  accordingly  ; 
and  in  a  minute  or  two  the  gate  people 
were  heard  and  seen,  screaming  in  vain 
after  the  illegal  charioteers. 

"  Fertur  equis  auriga,  neque  audit  currus." 

Virgil. 

"The  driver's  borne  beyond  their  swearing, 
And  the  post-chaise  is  hard  of  hearing." 

As  to  following  them,  nobody  in  Ire- 
land thinks  of  moving  too  much,  legal  or 
illegal. 

The  pleasure  to  be  had  in  a  mail-coach 
is  not  so  much  at  one's  command  as  that 
in  a  post-chaise.  There  is  generally  too 
little  room  in  it,  and  too  much  hurry  out 
of  it.  The  company  must  not  lounge 
18 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

over  their  breakfast,  even  if  they  are  all 
agreed.  It  is  an  understood  thing  that 
they  are  to  be  uncomfortably  punctual. 
They  must  get  in  at  seven  o'clock,  though 
they  are  all  going  upon  business  they  do 
not  like  or  care  about,  or  will  have  to  wait 
till  nine  before  they  can  do  anything. 
Some  persons  know  how  to  manage  this 
haste,  and  breakfast  and  dine  in  the  crack- 
ing of  a  whip.  They  stick  with  their 
fork,  they  joint,  they  sliver,  they  bolt. 
Legs  and  wings  vanish  before  them  like 
a  dragon's  before  a  knight-errant.  But  it 
one  is  not  a  clergyman  or  a  regular  jolly 
fellow,  one  has  no  chance  this  way.  To 
be  diffident  or  polite  is  fatal.  It  is  a  merit 
eagerly  acknowledged,  and  as  quickly  set 
aside.  At  last  you  begin  upon  a  leg,  and 
are  called  off. 

A  very  troublesome  degree  of  science  is 
necessary  for  being  well  settled  in  the 
coach.  We  remember  travelling  in  our 
youth,  upon  the  north  road,  with  an  ortho- 
dox elderly  gentleman  of  venerable  peruke, 
who  talked    much  with   a   grave-looking 

19 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


young  man  about  universities,  and  won 
our  inexperienced  heart  with  a  notion 
that  he  was  deep  in  Horace  and  Virgil. 
He  was  deeper  in  his  wig. 

Towards  evening,  as  he  seemed  rest- 
less, we  asked  with  much  diffidence 
whether  a  change,  even  for  the  worse, 
might  not  relieve  him  ;  for  we  were 
riding  backwards,  and  thought  that  all 
elderly  people  disliked  that  way.  He 
insinuated  the  very  objection  ;  so  we  re- 
coiled from  asking  him  again. 

In  a  minute  or  two,  however,  he  in- 
sisted that  we  were  uneasy  ourselves,  and 
that  he  must  relieve  us  for  our  own  sake. 
We  protested  as  filially  as  possible  against 
this ;  but  at  last,  out  of  mere  shame  of 
disputing  the  point  with  so  benevolent  an 
elder,  we  changed  seats  with  him. 

After  an  interval  of  bland  meditation, 
we  found  the  evening  sun  full  in  our  face. 
His  new  comfort  set  him  dozing  ;  and 
every  now  and  then  he  jerked  his  wig  in 
our  eyes,  till  we  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
him  take  out   a  nightcap  and   look  very 


^".-  —  ^.L 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

ghastly.  The  same  person,  and  his  serious 
young  companion,  tricked  us  out  of  a 
good  bed  we  happened  to  get  at  the  inn. 

The  greatest  peculiarity  attending  a 
mail-coach  arises  from  its  travelling  at 
night.  The  gradual  decline  of  talk,  the 
incipient  snore,  the  rustling  and  shifting 
of  legs  and  nightcaps,  the  cessation  of 
other  noises  on  the  road — the  sound  of  the 
wind  or  rain,  of  the  moist  circuit  or 
the  wheels,  and  of  the  time-beating  tread 
of  the  horses — all  dispose  the  traveller, 
who  cannot  sleep,  to  a  double  sense  of  the 
little  that  is  left  him  to  observe. 

The  coach  stops,  the  door  opens,  a 
rush  of  cold  air  announces  the  demands 
and  merits  of  the  guard,  who  is  taking 
his  leave,  and  is  anxious  to  remember  us. 
The  door  is  clapped  to  again  ;  the  sound 
of  everything  outside  becomes  dim  ;  and 
voices  are  heard  knocking  up  the  people 
of  the  inn,  and  answered  by  issuing  j 
and  excuses.  Wooden  shoes  clog  heavily 
about.  The  horses'  mouths  arc  heard, 
swilling   the   water    out   of  tubs.     All   is 

23 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

still  again,  and  some  one  in  the  coach 
takes  a  long  breath.  The  driver  mounts, 
and  we  resume  our  way. 

It  happens  that  we  can  sleep  anywhere 
except  in  a  mail-coach  ;  so  that  we  hate 
to  see  a  prudent,  warm,  old  fellow,  who 
has  been  eating  our  fowls  and  intercepting 
our  toast,  put  on  his  night-cap  in  order  to 
settle  himself  till  morning.  We  rejoice 
in  the  digs  that  his  neighbour's  elbow  gives 
him,  and  hail  the  long-legged  traveller 
that  sits  opposite. 

A  passenger  of  our  wakeful  description 
must  try  to  content  himself  with  listening 
to  the  sounds  above  mentioned  ;  or  think- 
ing of  his  friends  ;  or  turning  verses,  as 
Sir  Richard  Blackmore  did,  "to  the 
rumbling  of  his  coach's  wheels." 

The  stage-coach  is  a  great  and  unpre- 
tending accommodation.  It  is  a  cheap 
substitute,  notwithstanding  all  its  eightecn- 
penny  and  two-and-sixpenny  temptations, 
for  keeping  a  carriage  or  a  horse  ;  and 
we  really  think,  in  spite  of  its  gossiping, 
is  no  mean  help  to  village  liberality ;  for 

24 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

its  passengers  are  so  mixed,  so  often  varied, 
so  little  yet  so  much  together,  so  com- 
pelled to  accommodate,  so  willing  to  pass 
a  short  time  pleasantly,  and  so  liable  to 
the  criticism  of  strangers,  that  it  is  hard  if 
they  do  not  get  a  habit  of  speaking,  or 
even  thinking  more  kindly  of  one  another 
than  if  they  mingled  less  often,  or  under 
other  circumstances. 

The  old  and  infirm  are  treated  with 
reverence;  the  ailing  sympathised  with; 
the  healthy  congratulated;  the  rich  not 
distinguished  ;  the  poor  well  met  ;  the 
young,  with  their  faces  conscious  of  ride, 
patronised,  and  allowed  to  be  extra. 

Even  the  fiery,  nay  tha  fat,  learn  to 
bear  with  each  other  ;  and  if  some  high- 
thoughted  persons  will  talk  now  and  then 
of  their  great  acquaintances,  or  their  pre- 
ference of  a  carriage,  there  is  an  instinct 
which  tells  the  rest  that  they  would  not 
make  such  appeals  to  their  good  I  pinion 
if  they  valued  it  so  little  as  might  be  sup- 
posed. Stoppings  and  dust  arc  not  plea- 
Bant,  but  the  latter  may  be  had  on  grander 
c  25 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

occasions  ;  and  if  anyone  is  so  unlucky 
as  never  to  keep  another  stopping  himself, 
he  must  be  content  with  the  superiority  of 
his  virtue, 

The  mail  or  stage-coachman,  upon  the 
whole,  is  no  inhuman  mass  of  great-coat, 
grufFness,  civility,  and  old  boots.  The 
latter  is  the  politer,  from  the  smaller 
range  of  acquaintance,  and  his  necessity 
for  preserving  them. 

His  face  is  red,  and  his  voice  rough,  by 
the  same  process  of  drink  and  catarrh. 
He  has  a  silver  watch  with  a  steel-chain, 
and  plenty  of  loose  silver  in  his  pocket, 
mixed  with  half-pence.  He  serves  the 
houses  he  goes  by  for  a  clock.  He  takes 
a  glass  at  every  alehouse  ;  for  thirst,  when 
it  is  dry,  and  for  warmth  when  it  is  wet. 

He  likes  to  show  the  judicious  reach  of 
his  whip,  by  twigging  a  dog  or  a  goose  on 
the  road,  or  children  that  get  in  the  way. 
His  tenderness  to  descending  old  ladies  is 
particular.  He  touches  his  hat  to  Mr. 
Smth.  He  gives  "  the  young  woman  " 
a  ride,  and  lends  her  his  box-coat  in  the 
26 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

rain.  His  liberality  in  imparting  his 
knowledge  to  any  one  that  has  the  good 
fortune  to  ride  on  the  box  with  him  is  a 
happy  mixture  of  deference,  conscious 
possession,  and  familiarity.  His  informa- 
tion chiefly  lies  in  the  occupancy  of  houses 
on  the  road,  prize-fighters,  Bow  Street 
runners,  and  accidents. 

He  concludes  that  you  know  Dick 
Sams,  or  Old  Joey,  and  proceeds  to  relate 
some  of  the  stories  that  relish  his  pot  and 
tobacco  in  the  evening.  If  any  of  the 
four-in-hand  gentry  go  by,  he  snakes  his 
head,  and  thinks  they  might  find  some- 
thing better  to  do.  His  contempt  for 
them  is  founded  on  modesty. 

He  tells  you  that  his  off-hand  horse  is 
as  pretty  a  goer  as  ever  was,  but  tha1: 
Kitty — "  Yeah,  now  there,  Kitty,  can't 
you  be  still  ?  Kitty's  a  devil,  sir,  for  all 
you  wouldn't  think  it."  He  knows  that 
the  boys  on  the  road  admire  him,  and  gives 
the  horses  an  indifferent  lash  with  his 
whip  as  they  go  by.  If  you  wish  to 
know    what   rain    and   dust   can   do,    you 

27 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

should  look  at  his  old  hat.  There  is  an 
indescribably  placid  and  paternal  look  in 
the  position  of  his  corduroy  knees  and  old 
top-boots  on  the  foot-board,  with  their 
pointed  toes  and  never-cleaned  soles.  His 
beau-ideal  of  appearance  is  a  frock-coat, 
with  n.other-o'-pearl  buttons,  a  striped 
yellow  waistcoat,  and  a  flower  in  his 
mouth. 

"  But  all  our  praises  why  for  Charles  and  Robert  ? 
Rise,  honest  Mews,  and  sing  the  classic  Bobart." 

Is  the  quadrijugal  virtue  of  that  learned 
person  still  extant  ?  That  Olympic  and 
Baccalaureated  charioteer  ? — That  best 
educated  and  most  erudite  of  coachmen,  of 
whom  Dominie  Sampson  is  alone  worthy 
to  speak  ?  That  singular  punning  and 
driving  commentary  on  the  Sunt  quos  curri- 
culo  colleglsse  ?  In  short,  the  worthy  and 
agreeable  Mr.  Bobart,  Bachelor  of  Arts, 
who  drove  the  Oxford  stage  some  years 
ago,  capped  verses  and  the  front  of  his 
hat  with  equal  dexterity,  and  read  Horace 
over  his  brandy-and-water  of  an  evening. 
28 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

We  had  once  the  pleasure  of  being 
beaten  by  him  in  that  capital  art,  he 
having  brought  up  against  us  an  unusual 
number  of  those  cross-armed  letters,  as 
puzzling  to  verse-cappers  as  iron-cats  unto 
cavalry,  ycleped  X's  ;  which  said  warfare 
he  was  pleased  to  call  to  mind  in  after 
times,  unto  divers  of  our  comrades. 

The  modest  and  natural  greatness  with 
which  he  used  to  say  "  Yait "  to  his 
horses,  and  then  turn  round  with  his  rosy 
gills,  and  an  eye  like  a  fish,  and  give  out 
the  required  verse,  can  never  pass  away 
from  us,  as  long  as  verses  or  horses  run. 

Of  the  hackney-coach  we  cannot  make 
as  short  work  as  many  persons  like  to 
make  of  it  in  reality.  Perhaps  it  is  partly 
a  sense  of  the  contempt  it  undergoes, 
which  induces  us  to  endeavour  to  make 
the  best  of  it.  But  it  has  its  merits,  as  we 
shall  show  presently.  In  the  account  of 
its  demerits  we  have  been  anticipated  by  a 
new,  and  we  are  sorry  to  say  a  very  good, 

poetess,   of  the  name  of   Lucy    V 

L ,  who  has  favourei  us  with  a  sight 

29 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

of  a  manuscript  poem,  in  which  they  are 
related  with  great  nicety  and  sensitiveness. 

Reader.  What,  sir,  sorry  to  say  that  a 
lady  is  a  good  poetess  ? 

Indicator.  Only  inasm-ch,  madam,  as 
the  lady  gives  such  authority  to  the  anti- 
social view  of  this  subject,  and  will  not 
agree  with  us  as  to  the  beatitude  of  the 
hackney-coach. — But  hold  : — upon  turn- 
ing to  the  manuscript  again,  we  find  that 
the  objections  are  put  into  the  mouth  of  a 
dandy  courtier.  This  makes  a  great  dif- 
ference. The  hackney  resumes  all  which 
it  had  lost  in  the  good  graces  of  the  fair 
authoress.  The  only  wonder  is,  how  the 
courtier  could  talk  so  well.  Here  is  the 
passage  : — 

"  Eban,  untempted  by  the  Pastry-cooks 

(Of  Pastry  he  got  store  within  the  Palace), 
With  hasty  steps,  wrapp'd  cloak,  and  solemn 

looks, 
Incognito  upon  his  errand  sallies  $ 
His  smelling-bottle  ready  for  the  alleys  ; 
He  pass'd  the  Hurdy-gurdies  with  disdain, 
Vowing  he'd    have    them    sent  on  board    the 

galleys  : 

30 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


Just  as  he  made  his  vow,  it  'gan  to  rain, 
Therefore  he   call'd   a  coach,  and   bade  it  drive 


1  I'll  pull  the  string,'  said  he,  and  further  said, 
'  Polluted  Jarvey  !     Ah,  thou  filthy  hack  ! 
Whose  strings  of  life  are  all  dried  up  and  dead, 
Whose  linsey-wolsey  lining  hangs  all  slack, 
Whose  rug    is    straw,    whose    wholeness    is    a 

crack  ; 
And  evermore  thy  steps  go  clatter-clitter  ; 
Whose  glass  once  up  can  never  be  got  back, 
Who     prov'st,    with    jolting     arguments     and 

bitter, 
That  'tis  of  vile  no-use-to  travel  in  a  litter. 

'Thou  inconvenience  !  thou  hungry  crop 
For  all  corn  !  thou  snail  creeper  to  and  fro, 
Who  while  thou  goest  ever  seem'st  to  stop, 
And  fiddle-faddle  startdest  while  you  go  $ 
I'  the  morning,  freighted  with  a  weight  of  woe, 
Unto  some  Lazar-house  thou  journiest, 
And  in  the  evening  tak'st  a  double  row 
Of  dowdies,  for  some  dance  or  party  drest, 
Besides   the  goods  meanwhile   thou  movcst  east 
and  west. 

'By  thy  ungallant  bearing  and  sad  mien, 
An  inch  appears  the  utmost  thou  couldst  budge  ; 
Yet  at  the  slightest  nod,  or  hint,  or  sign, 
Round    to    the    curb-stone   patient    dost   thou 
trudge, 

31 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


School'd  in  a  beckon,  learned  in  a  nudge ; 
A  dull-eyed  Argus  watching  for  a  fare  ; 
Quiet  and  plodding,  thou  dost  bear  no  grudge 
To  whisking  Tilburies  or  Phaetons  rare, 
Curricles,  or  Mail-coaches,  swift  beyond  compare.' 

Philosophising  thus,  he  pull'd  the  check, 
And  bade  the  coachman  wheel  to  such  a  street  j 
Who  turning  much  his  body,  more  his  neck, 
Louted  full  low,  and  hoarsely  did  him  greet." 

The  tact  here  is  so  nice  of  the  infirmities 
which  are  but  too  likely  to  beset  our  poor 
old  friend,  that  we  should  only  spoil  it  to 
say  more.     To  pass  then  to  the  merits. 

One  of  the  greatest  helps  to  a  sense  or 
merit  in  other  things  is  a  consciousness  of 
one's  own  wants.  Do  you  despise  a 
hackney-coach  ?  Get  tired  ;  get  old  ; 
get  young  again.  Lay  down  your  car- 
riage, or  make  it  less  uneasily  too  easy. 
Have  to  stand  up  half-an-hour,  out  of  a 
storm,  under  a  gateway.  Be  ill,  and  wish 
to  visit  a  friend  who  is  worse.  Fall  in 
love,  and  want  to  sit  next  your  mistress. 
Or  if  all  this  will  not  do,  fall  in  a  cellar. 

Ben  Jonson,  in  a  fit  of  indignation  at 
32 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


the  niggardliness  of  James  the  First,  ex- 
claimed, "  He  despises  me,  I  suppose, 
because  I  live  in  an  alley  : — tell  him  his 
soul  lives  in  an  alley."  We  think  we  see 
a  hackney-coach  moving  out  of  its  ordi- 
nary patience,  and  hear  it  say,  "  You 
there,  who  sit  looking  so  scornfully  at  me 
out  of  your  carriage,  are  yourself  the 
thing  you  take  me  for.  Your  understand- 
ing is  a  hackney-coach.  It  is  lumbering, 
rickety,  and  at  a  stand.  When  it  moves 
it  is  drawn  by  things  like  itself.  It  is  at 
once  the  most  stationary  and  the  most 
servile  of  commonplaces.  And  when  a 
good  thing  is  put  into  it,  it  does  not  know 
it." 

But  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  hackney- 
coach  under  so  irritable  an  aspect. 
Hogarth  has  drawn  a  set  of  hats  or  wigs 
with  countenances  of  their  own.  We 
have  noticed  the  same  thing  in  the  faces 
of  houses  ;  and  it  sometimes  gets  in  one's 
way  in  a  landscape-painting,  with  the  out- 
lines of  the  rocks  and  trees. 

A    friend   tells   us   that    the    hackney- 

33 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


coach  has  its  countenance,  with  gesticula- 
tion besides  :  and  now  he  has  pointed  it 
out,  we  can  easily  fancy  it.  Some  of 
them  look  chucked  under  the  chin,  some 
nodding,  some  coming  at  you  sideways. 
We  shall  never  find  it  easy,  however,  to 
fancy  the  irritable  aspect  above-mentioned. 

A  hackney-coach  always  appeared  to 
us  the  most  quiescent  of  movables.  Its 
horses  and  it,  slumbering  on  a  stand,  are 
an  emblem  of  all  patience  in  creation, 
animate  and  inanimate. 

The  submission  with  which  the  coach 
takes  every  variety  of  the  weather,  dust, 
rain,  and  wind,  never  moving  but  when 
some  eddying  blast  makes  its  old  body 
shiver,  is  only  surpassed  by  the  vital 
patience  of  the  horses. 

Can  anything  better  illustrate  the  poet's 
line  about 

"  — Years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind," 

than  the  still-hung  head,  the  dim  indifferent 
eye,  the  dragged  and  blunt-cornered 
mouth,  and  the  gaunt  imbecility  of  body 

34 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

dropping  its  weight  on  three  tired  legs  in 
order  to  give  repose  to  the  lame  one  ? 
When  it  has  blinkers  on,  they  seem  to  be 
shutting  up  its  eyes  for  death,  like  the 
windows  of  a  house.  Fatigue  and  the 
habit  of  suffering  have  become  as  natural 
to  the  creature  as  the  bit  to  its  mouth. 

Once  in  half-an-hour  it  moves  the  posi- 
tion of  its  leg,  or  shakes  its  drooping  ears. 
The  whip  makes  it  go,  more  from  habit 
than  from  pain.  Its  coat  has  become 
almost  callous  to  minor  stings.  The  blind 
and  staggering  fly  in  autumn  might  come 
to  die  against  its  cheek. 

Of  a  pair  of  hackney-coach  horses,  one 
so  much  resembles  the  other  that  it  seems 
unnecessary  for  them  to  compare  notes. 
They  have  that  within  them  which  is 
beyond  the  comparative.  They  no  longer 
bend  their  heads  towards  each  other  as 
they  go.  They  stand  together  as  if  un- 
conscious of  one  another's  company.  But 
they  are  not. 

An  old  horse  misses  his  companion,  like 
an  old   man.     The  presence  of  an  asso- 

3S 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

ciate,  who  has  gone  through  pain  and 
suffering  with  us,  need  not  say  anything. 
It  is  talk,  and  memory,  and  everything. 
Something  of  this  it  may  be  to  our  old 
friends  in  harness.  What  are  they  think- 
ing of  while  they  stand  motionless  in  the 
rain  ?  Do  they  remember  ?  Do  they 
dream  ?  Do  they  still,  unperplexed  as  their 
old  blood  is  by  too  many  foods,  receive  a 
pleasure  from  the  elements  ;  a  dull  refresh- 
ment from  the  air  and  sun  ?  Have  they 
yet  a  palate  for  the  hay  which  they  pull  so 
feebly  ?  or  for  the  rarer  grain  which  in- 
duces them  to  perform  their  only  voluntary 
gesture  of  any  vivacity,  and  toss  up  the 
bags  that  are  fastened  on  their  mouths,  to 
get  at  its  shallow  feast  ? 

If  the  old  horse  were  gifted  with 
memory  (and  who  shall  say  he  is  not,  in 
one  thing  as  well  as  another  ?),  it  might  be 
at  once  the  most  melancholy  and  plea- 
santest  faculty  he  has  ;  for  the  commonest 
hack  has  probably  been  a  hunter  or  racer  ; 
has  had  his  days  of  lustre  and  enjoyment  ; 
has  darted  along  the  course,  and  scoured 

36 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

the  pasture ;  has  carried  his  master 
proudly,  or  his  lady  gently  ;  has  pranced, 
has  galloped,  has  neighed  aloud,  has 
dared,  has  forded,  has  spurned  at  mastery, 
has  graced  it  and  made  it  proud,  has  re- 
joiced the  eye,  has  been  crowded  to  as  an 
actor,  has  been  all  instinct  with  life  and 
quickness,  has  had  his  very  fear  admired  as 
courage,  and  been  sat  upon  by  valour  as  its 
chosen  seat. 

"His  ears  up-prick'd  j  his  Lraided  hangirg  mane 
Upon  his  compass'd  crest  now  stands  on  end  ; 
His  nostrils  drink  the  air  ;  and  forth  again, 
As  from  a  furnace,  vapours  doth  he  send  ; 
His  eye,  which  scornfully  glistens  like  fire, 
Shows  his  hot  courage  and  his  high  desire. 
Sometimes  he  trots  as  if  he  told  the  it 
With  gentle  majesty,  and  modest  pride  ; 
Anon  he  rears  upright,  curvets  and  Leapt, 
As  who  would  say,  lo  !  thus  my  strength 
And  thus  I  do  to  captivate  the  eye 
Of  the  fair  breeder  that  is  standing  by. 
What  recketh  he  his  rider's  angry  stir, 
His  flattering  holla,  or  his  Stand,  /  ten  ? 
What  cares  he  now  for  curb,  or  pricking  spur? 
For  rich  caparisons,  or  trappings  gay  J 
He  sees  his  love,  and  nothing  ell 
For  nothing  else  with  his  proud  sight  agrees. 

D  37 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


Look,  when  a  painter  would  surpass  the  life, 
In  limning  out  a  well-proportion'd  steed, 
His  art  with  nature's  workmanship  at  strife, 
As  if  the  dead  the  living  should  exceed  ; 
So  did  this  horse  excel  a  common  one, 
In  shape,  in  courage,  colour,  pace,  and  bone. 

Round-hoof'd,  short-jointed,  fetlock   shag  and 

long, 
Broad  breast,  full  eyes,  small  head,  and  nostril 

wide  ; 
High  crest,  short  ears,  straight  legs,  and  passing 

strong  j 
Thin  mane,  thick  tail,  broad  buttock,  tender 
hide  5 
Look,  what  a  horse  should  have,  he  did  not 

lack, 
Save  a  proud  rider  on  so  proud  a  back." 

Alas  !  his  only  riders  now  are  the  rain 
and  a  sordid  harness.  The  least  utter- 
ance of  the  wretchedest  voice  makes  him 
stop  and  become  a  fixture.  His  loves 
were  in  existence  at  the  time  the  old 
sign,  fifty  miles  hence,  was  painted.  His 
nostrils  drink  nothing  but  what  they  can- 
not help — the  water  out  of  an  old  tub. 
Not  all  the  hounds  in  the  world  could 
make  his  ears  attain  any  eminence.     His 

38 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

mane  is  scratchy  and  lax.  The  same 
great  poet  who  wrote  the  triumphal  verses 
for  him  and  his  loves,  has  written  their 
living  epitaph  : — 

"The  poor  jades 
Lob  down   their  heads,   dropping  the   hide  and 

hips, 
The  gum  down  roping  from  their  pale  dead  eyes  ; 
And  in  their  pale  dull  mouths  the  gimmal  bit 
Lies  foul  with  chew'd  grass,  still  and  motionless." 
K.  Henry  V,  Act  I. 

There  is  a  song  called  the  "  High- 
mettled  Racer,"  describing  the  progress 
of  a  favourite  horse's  life,  from  its  time  of 
vigour  and  glory,  down  to  its  furnishing 
food  for  the  dogs.  It  is  not  as  good  as 
Shakespeare  ;  but  it  will  do  to  those  who 
are  half  as  kind  as  he. 

We  defy  anybody  to  read  that  song,  or 
be  in  the  habit  of  singing  it  or  hearing  it 
sung,  and  treat  horses  as  they  are  some- 
times treated.  So  much  good  may  an 
author  do,  who  is  in  earnest,  and  does  not 
go  in  a  pedantic  way  to  work. 

We  will  not  say  that  Plutarch's  good- 

39 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


natured  observation  about  taking  care  of 
one's  old  horse  did  more  for  that  class  of 
retired  servants  than  all  the  graver  lessons 
of  philosophy.  For  it  is  philosophy 
which  first  sets  people  thinking ;  and  then 
some  of  them  put  it  in  a  more  popular 
shape.  But  we  will  venture  to  say  that 
Plutarch's  observation  saved  many  a  steed 
of  antiquity  a  superfluous  thump  ;  and  in 
this  respect  the  author  of  the  "  High- 
mettled  Racer  "  (Mr.  Dibdin  we  believe, 
no  mean  man  in  his  way)  may  stand  by 
the  side  of  the  old  illustrious  biographer. 

Next  to  ancient  causes,  to  the  inevitable 
progress  of  events,  and  to  the  practical 
part  of  Christianity  (which  persons,  the 
most  accused  of  irreligion,  have  preserved 
like  a  glorious  infant,  through  ages  of 
blood  and  lire)  the  kindliness  of  modern 
philosophy  is  more  immediately  owing  to 
the  great  national  writers  of  Europe,  in 
whose  schools  we  have  all  been  children  : 
— to  Voltaire  in  France,  and  Shakespeare 
in  England.  Shakespeare,  in  his  time, 
obliquely  pleaded  the  cause  of  the  Jew, 
40 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


and  got  him  set  on  a  common  level  with 
humanity.  The  Jew  has  since  been  not 
only  allowed  to  be  human,  but  some  have 
undertaken  to  show  him  as  the  "  best 
good  Christian  though  he  knows  it  not." 

We  shall  not  dispute  the  title  with  him, 
nor  with  the  other  worshippers  of  Mam- 
mon, who  force  him  to  the  same  shrine. 
We  allow,  as  things  go  in  that  quarter, 
that  the  Jew  is  as  great  a  Christian  as  his 
neighbour,  and  his  neighbour  as  great  a 
Jew  as  he.  There  is  neither  love  nor 
money  lost  between  them. 

But,  at  all  events,  the  Jew  is  a  man  ; 
and  with  Shakespeare's  assistance  the  time 
has  arrived  when  we  can  afford  to  acknow- 
ledge the  horse  for  a  fellow-creature,  and 
treat  him  as  one.  We  may  say  for  him, 
upon  the  same  grounds  and  to  the  same 
purpose,  as  Shakespeare  said  for  the 
Israelite,  "  Hath  not  a  horse  organs, 
dimensions,  senses,  affections,  passions  ? 
hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  subject  to 
the  same  diseases,  healed  by  the  same 
means,  warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

winter  and  summer,  as  a  Christian  is  ?  M 
Oh — but  some  are  always  at  hand  to  cry 
out — it  would  be  effeminate  to  think  too 
much  of  these  things! — Alas!  we  have 
no  notion  of  asking  the  gentlemen  to 
think  too  much  of  anything.  If  they 
will  think  at  all,  it  will  be  a  great  gain. 

As  to  effeminacy  (if  we  must  use  that 
ungallant  and  partial  word,  for  want  of  a 
better)  it  is  cruelty  that  is  effeminate.  It 
is  selfishness  that  is  effeminate.  Any- 
thing is  effeminate  which  would  get  an 
excitement,  or  save  a  proper  and  manly 
trouble,  at  the  undue  expense  of  another. 
How  does  the  case  stand  then  between 
those  who  ill-treat  their  horses  and  those 
who  spare  them  ? 

To  return  to  the  coach.  Imagine  a 
fine  coach  and  pair,  which  are  standing 
at  the  door  of  a  house,  in  all  the  pride  of 
their  strength  and  beauty,  converted  into 
what  they  may  both  become,  a  hackney, 
and  its  old  shamblers.  Such  is  one  of 
the  meditations  of  the  philosophic  eighteen- 
penny  rider.  A  hackney-coach  has  often 
42 


— -**%&* 


'" 


81 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

the  arms  of  nobility  on  it.  As  we  are 
going  to  get  into  it  we  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  faded  lustre  of  an  earl's  or  marquis's 
coronet,  and  think  how  many  light  and 
proud  hearts  have  ascended  those  now 
rickety  steps. 

In  this  coach  perhaps  an  elderly  lady 
once  rode  to  her  wedding,  a  blooming 
and  blushing  girl.  Her  mother  and  sister 
were  on  each  side  of  her  ;  the  bridegroom 
opposite  in  a  blossom-coloured  coat.  They 
talk  of  everything  in  the  world  of  which 
they  are  not  thinking.  The  sister  was 
never  prouder  of  her.  The  mother  with 
difficulty  represses  her  own  pride  and 
tears.  The  bride,  thinking  he  is  looking  at 
her,  casts  down  her  eyes,  pensive  in  her  joy. 

The  bridegroom  is  at  once  the  proudest, 
and  the  humblest,  and  the  happiest  man  in 
the  world.  For  our  parts,  we  sit  in  a 
corner,  and  are  in  love  with  the  sister. 
We  dream  she  is  going  to  speak  to  us  in 
answer  to  some  indifferent  question,  when 
a  hoarse  voice  comes  in  at  the  front  win- 
dow and  says,  "  Whereabouts,  sir  ?  " 

45 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


And  grief  has  consecrated  thee,  thou 
reverend  dilapidation,  as  well  as  joy ! 
Thou  hast  carried  unwilling  as  well  as 
willing  hearts  ;  hearts  that  have  thought 
the  slowest  of  thy  paces  too  fast ;  faces 
that  have  sat  back  in  a  corner  of  thee,  to 
hide  their  tears  from  the  very  thought  of 
being  seen. 

In  thee  the  destitute  have  been  taken 
to  the  poor-house,  and  the  wounded  and 
sick  to  the  hospital ;  and  many  an  arm 
has  been  round  many  an  insensible  waist. 
Into  thee  the  friend  or  the  lover  has  hur- 
ried, in  a  passion  of  tears,  to  lament  his 
loss. 

In  thee  he  has  hastened  to  condole  the 
dying  or  the  wretched  In  thee  the 
father,  or  mother,  or  the  older  kinswoman, 
more  patient  in  her  years,  has  taken  the 
little  child  to  the  grave,  the  human  jewel 
that  must  be  parted  with. 

But  joy  appears  in  thee  again,  like  the 

look-in    of   the   sunshine.     If    the    lover 

has  gone  in  thee  unwillingly,  he  has  also 

gone  willingly.     How  many  friends  hast 

46 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

thou  not  carried  to  merry-meetings  !  How 
many  young  parties  to  the  play  !  How 
many  children,  whose  faces  thou  hast 
turned  in  an  instant  from  the  extremity  of 
lachrymose  weariness  to  that  of  staring 
delight. 

Thou  hast  contained  as  many  different 
passions  in  thee  as  a  human  heart  ;  and 
for  the  sake  of  the  human  heart,  old 
body,  thou  art  venerable.  Thou  shalt  be 
as  respectable  as  a  reduced  old  gentleman, 
whose  very  slovenliness  is  pathetic.  Thou 
shalt  be  made  gay,  as  he  is  over  a  younger 
and  richer  table,  and  thou  shalt  be  still 
more  touching  for  the  gaiety. 

We  wish  the  hackney-coachman  were 
as  interesting  a  machine  as  either  his 
coach  or  horses  ;  but  it  must  be  owned, 
that  of  all  the  driving  species  he  is  the 
least  agreeable  specimen.  This  is  partly 
to  be  attributed  to  the  life  which  has  most 
probably  put  him  into  his  situation  ;  partly 
to  his  want  of  outside  passengers  to  culti- 
vate his  gentility  ;  and  partly  to  the  dis- 
putable nature  of  his  fare,  which  always 

47 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

leads  him  to  be  lying  and  cheating.  The 
waterman  of  the  stand,  who  beats  him  in 
sordidness  of  appearance,  is  more  respec- 
table. He  is  less  of  a  vagabond,  and 
cannot  cheat  you. 

Nor  is  the  hackney-coachman  only 
disagreeable  in  himself,  but,  like  Falstaff 
reversed,  the  cause  of  disagreeableness  in 
others  ;  for  he  sets  people  upon  disputing 
with  him  in  pettiness  and  ill-temper.  He 
induces  the  mercenary  to  be  violent,  and 
the  violent  to  seem  mercenary.  A  man 
whom  you  took  for  a  pleasant,  laughing 
fellow,  -shall  all  of  a  sudden  put  on  an 
irritable  look  of  calculation,  and  vow  that 
he  will  be  charged  with  a  constable  rather 
than  pay  the  sixpence. 

Even  fair  woman  shall  waive  her  all- 
conquering  softness,  and  sound  a  shrill 
trumpet  in  reprobation  of  the  extortionate 
charioteer,  whom,  if  she  were  a  man,  she 
says,  she  would  expose.  Being  a  woman, 
then,  let  her  not  expose  herself.  Oh,  but 
it  is  intolerable  to  be  so  imposed  upon  ! 
Let  the  lady,  then,  get  a  pocket-book,  if 

48 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

she  must,  with  the  hackney-coach  fares  in 
it  ;  or  a  pain  in  the  legs,  rather  than  the 
temper  ;  or,  above  all,  let  her  get  wiser, 
and  have  an  understanding  that  can  dis- 
pense with  the  good  opinion  of  the  hack- 
ney-coachman. Does  she  think  that  her 
rosy  lips  were  made  to  grow  pale  about 
two-and-sixpence  ;  or  that  the  expression 
of  them  will  ever  be  like  her  cousin 
Fanny's  if  she  goes  on  ? 

The  stage-coachman  likes  the  boys  on 
the  road,  because  he  knows  they  admire 
him.  The  hackney-coachman  knows  that 
they  cannot  admire  him,  and  that  they  ran 
get  up  behind  his  coach,  which  makes 
him  very  savage. 

The  cry  of  "  Cut  behind  !  "  from  the 
malicious  urchins  on  the  pavement  wounds 
at  once  his  self-love  and  his  interest.  1  [e 
would  not  mind  overloading  his  master's 
horses  for  another  sixpence,  but  to  do  it 
for  nothing  is  what  shocks  his  humanity. 
He  hates  the  boy  for  imposing  upon  him, 
and  the  boys  for  reminding  him  that  he 
has   been    imposed   upon  ;   and   he   woultf 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

willingly  twinge  the  cheeks  of  all  nine. 
The  cut  of  his  whip  over  the  coach  is 
malignant. 

He  has  a  constant  eye  to  the  road  be- 
hind him.  He  has  also  an  eye  to  what 
may  be  left  in  the  coach.  He  will  un- 
dertake to  search  the  straw  for  you,  and 
miss  the  half-crown  on  purpose.  He 
speculates  on  what  he  may  get  above  his 
fare,  according  to  your  manners  or  com- 
pany ;  and  knows  how  much  to  ask  for 
driving  faster  or  slower  than  usual. 

He  does  not  like  wet  weather  so  much 
as  people  suppose ;  for  he  says  it  rots  both 
his  horses  and  harness,  and  he  takes 
parties  out  of  town  when  the  weather  is 
fine,  which  produces  good  payments  in  a 
lump. 

Lovers,  late  supper-eaters,  and  girls 
going  home  from  boarding-school,  are  his 
best  pay.  He  has  a  rascally  air  of  re- 
monstrance when  you  dispute  half  the 
overcharge,  and  according  to  the  temper 
he  is  in,  begs  you  to  consider  his  bread, 
hopes  you  will  not  make  such  a  fuss  about 

50 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

a  trifle  ;  or  tells  you,  you  may  take  his 
number  or  sit  in  the  coach  all  night. 

A  great  number  of  ridiculous  adven- 
tures must  have  taken  place  in  which 
hackney-coaches  were  concerned.  The 
story  of  the  celebrated  harlequin  Lunn, 
who  secretly  pitched  himself  out  of  one 
into  a  tavern  window,  and  when  the 
coachman  was  about  to  submit  to  the  loss 
of  his  fare,  astonished  him  by  calling  out 
again  from  the  inside,  is  too  well  known 
for  repetition. 

There  is  one  of  Swift,  not  perhaps  so 
common.  He  was  going,  one  dark  even- 
ing, to  dine  with  some  great  man,  and  was 
accompanied  by  some  other  clergymen,  to 
whom  he  gave  their  cue.  They  were  all 
in  their  canonicals.  When  they  arrive  at 
the  house,  the  coachman  opens  the  door, 
and  lets  down  the  steps.  Down  steps  the 
Dean,  very  reverend  in  his  black  robes  ; 
after  him  comes  another  personage,  equally 
black  and  dignified  ;  then  another  ;  then 
a  fourth.  The  coachman,  who  recollects 
taking  up  no  greater  number,  is  about  to 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

put  up  the  steps,  when  another  clergyman 
descends.  After  giving  way  to  this  other, 
he  proceeds  with  great  confidence  to  toss 
them  up,  when  lo  !  another  comes.  Well, 
there  cannot,  he  thinks,  be  more  than  six. 
He  is  mistaken.  Down  comes  a  seventh, 
then  an  eighth  ;  then  a  ninth  ;  all  with 
decent  intervals  ;  the  coach,  in  the  mean- 
time, rocking  as  if  it  were  giving  birth  to 
so  many  demons.  The  coachman  can 
conclude  no  less.  He  cries  out,  "  The 
devil !  the  devil !  "  and  is  preparing  to 
run  away,  when  they  all  burst  into  laugh- 
ter. They  had  gone  round  as  they 
descended,  and  got  in  at  the  other  door. 

We  remember  in  our  boyhood  an  edify- 
ing comment  on  the  proverb  of  "  all  is 
not  gold  that  glistens."  The  spectacle 
made  such  an  impression  upon  us,  that  we 
recollect  the  very  spot,  which  was  at  the 
corner  of  a  road  in  the  way  from  West- 
minster to  Kennington,  near  a  stone- 
mason's. It  was  a  severe  winter,  and  we 
were  out  on  a  holiday,  thinking,  perhaps, 
of  the    gallant    hardships    to  which    the 

52 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

ancient  soldiers  accustomed  themselves, 
when  we  suddenly  beheld  a  group  of 
hackney-coachmen,  not,  as  Spenser  says 
of  his  witch, 

"  Busy,  as  seemed,  about  some  wicked  gin," 

but  pledging  each  other  in  what  appeared 
to  us  to  be  little  glasses  of  cold  water. 
What  temperance,  thought  we  !  What 
extraordinary  and  noble  content !  What 
more  than  Roman  simplicity  !  Here  are 
a  set  of  poor  Englishmen,  of  the  home- 
liest order,  in  the  very  depth  of  winter, 
quenching  their  patient  and  honourable 
thirst  with  modicums  of  cold  water  !  O 
true  virtue  and  courage  !  O  sight  worthy 
of  the  Timoleons  and  Epaminondases ! 
We  know  not  how  long  we  remained  in 
this  error  ;  but  the  first  time  we  recog- 
nised the  white  devil  for  what  it  was — ■ 
the  first  time  we  saw  through  the  crystal 
purity  of  its  appearance — was  a  great 
blow  to  us. 

We     did     not    then     know    what    the 
drinkers  went  through  ;   and  this  reminds 

53 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

us  that  we  have  omitted  one  great  re- 
demption of  the  hackney-coachman's 
character — his  being  at  the  mercy  of  all 
chances  and  weathers. 

Other  drivers  have  their  settled  hours 
and  pay.  He  only  is  at  the  mercy  of 
every  call  and  every  casualty ;  he  only  is 
dragged,  without  notice,  like  the  damned 
in  Milton,  into  the  extremities  of  wet  and 
cold,  from  his  alehouse  fire  to  the  freezing 
rain  ;  he  only  must  go  anywhere,  at  what 
hour  and  to  whatever  place  you  choose, 
his  old  rheumatic  limbs  shaking  under  his- 
weight  of  rags,  and  the  snow  and  sleet 
beating  into  his  puckered  face,  through 
streets  which  the  wind  scours  like  a 
channel. 


54 


NIGHT   WATCHMEN 

THE  readers  of  these  our  lucubra- 
tions need  not  be  informed  that  we 
keep  no  carriage.  The  conse- 
quence is,  that  being  visitors  of  the 
theatre,  and  having  some  inconsiderate 
friends  who  grow  plcasanter  and  pleasanter 
till  one  in  the  morning,  we  are  great 
walkers  home  by  night ;  and  this  has 
made  us  great  acquaintances  of  watch- 
men, moonlight,  //W-light,  and  other 
accompaniments  of  that  interesting  hour. 
Luckily  we  are  fond  of  a  walk  by  night. 
It  does  not  always  do  us  good  ;  but  that 
is  not  the  fault  of  the  hour,  but  our  own, 
who  ought  to  be  stouter  ;  and  therefore 
we  extract  what  good  we  can  out  of  our 
necessity,  with  becoming  temper.  It  is  a 
remarkable  thing  in  nature,  and  one  of 
the  good-naturedest  things  we  know  oi 
her,  that  the  mere  fact  of  looking  about 

55 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

us,  and  being  conscious  of  what  is  going 
on,  is  its  own  reward,  if  we  do  but 
notice  it  in  good-humour.  Nature  is  a 
great  painter  (and  art  and  society  are 
among  her  works),  to  whose  minutest 
touches  the  mere  fact  of  becoming  alive 
is  to  enrich  the  stock  of  our  enjoyments. 
We  confess  there  are  points  liable  to 
cavil  in  a  walk  home  by  night  in  Feb- 
ruary. Old  umbrellas  have  their  weak 
sides  ;  and  the  quantity  of  mud  and  rain 
may  surmount  the  picturesque.  Mis- 
taking a  soft  piece  of  mud  for  hard,  and 
so  filling  your  shoe  with  it,  especially  at 
setting  out,  must  be  acknowledged  to  be 
"  aggravating."  But  then  you  ought  to 
have  boots.  There  are  sights,  indeed,  in 
the  streets  of  London,  which  can  be 
rendered  pleasant  by  no  philosophy  ; 
things  too  grave  to  be  talked  about  in  our 
present  paper  ;  but  we  must  premise,  that 
our  walk  leads  us  out  of  town,  and 
through  streets  and  suburbs  of  by  no 
means  the  worst  description.  Even  there 
we  may  be  grieved  if  we  will.  The 
-56 


Coaches  and  Coaching 


farther  the  walk  into  the  country,  the 
more  tiresome  we  may  choose  to  find  it ; 
and  when  we  take  it  purely  to  oblige 
others,  we  must  allow,  as  in  the  case  of 
a  friend  of  ours,  that  generosity  itself  on 
two  sick  legs  may  find  limits  to  the  notion 
of  virtue  being  its  own  reward,  and  rea- 
sonably "  curse  those  comfortable  people  " 
who,  by  the  lights  in  their  windows,  are 
getting  into  their  warm  beds,  and  saying 
to  one  another,  "  Bad  thing  to  be  out  of 
doors  to-night." 

Supposing,  then,  that  we  are  in  a  rea- 
sonable state  of  health  and  comfort  in 
other  respects,  we  say  that  a  walk  home 
at  night  has  its  merits,  if  you  choose  to 
meet  with  them.  The  worst  part  of  it  is 
the  setting  out ;  the  closing  of  the  door 
upon  the  kind  faces  that  part  with  you. 
But  their  words  and  looks,  on  the  other 
hand,  may  set  you  well  off.  We  have 
known  a  word  last  us  all  the  way  home, 
and  a  look  make  a  dream  of  it.  To  a 
lover,  for  instance,  no  walk  can  be  bad. 
He  sees  but  one  face  in  the  rain  and  dark- 

57 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

ness  ;  the  same  that  he  saw  by  the  light 
in  the  warm  room.  This  ever  accom- 
panies him,  looking  in  his  eyes  ;  and  if 
the  most  pitiable  and  spoilt  face  in  the 
world  should  come  between  them,  start- 
ling him  with  the  saddest  mockery  of 
love,  he  would  treat  it  kindly  for  her  sake. 
But  this  is  a  begging  of  the  question.  A 
lover  does  not  walk.  He  is  sensible 
neither  to  the  pleasures  nor  pains  of  walk- 
ing. He  treads  on  air  ;  and  in  the  thick 
of  all  that  seems  inclement  has  an  avenue 
of  light  and  velvet  spread  for  him,  like  a 
sovereign  prince. 

To  resume,  then,  like  men  of  this 
world.  The  advantage  of  a  late  hour  is, 
that  everything  is  silent  and  the  people 
fast  in  their  beds.  This  gives  the  whole 
world  a  tranquil  appearance.  Inanimate 
objects  are  no  calmer  than  passions  and 
cares  now  seem  to  be,  all  laid  asleep.  The 
human  being  is  motionless  as  the  house  or 
the  tree  ;  sorrow  is  suspended  ;  and  you 
endeavour  to  think  that  love  only  is 
awake.      Let  not  readers  of  true  delicacy 

58 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

be  alarmed,  for  we  mean  to  touch  pro- 
fanely upon  nothing  that  ought  to  be 
sacred  ;  and  as  we  are  for  thinking  the 
best  on  these  occasions,  it  is  of  the  best 
love  we  think  ;  love  of  no  heartless  order, 
and  such  only  as  ought  to  be  awake  with 
the  stars. 

As  to  cares  and  curtain-lectures,  and 
such-like  abuses  of  the  tranquillity  of 
night,  we  call  to  mind,  for  their  sakes,  all 
the  sayings  of  the  poets  and  others  about 
"balmy  sleep,"  and  the  soothing  of  hurt 
minds,  and  the  weariness  of  sorrow,  which 
drops  into  forgetfulness.  The  great 
majority  are  certainly  "  fast  as  a  church  " 
by  the  time  we  speak  of ;  and  for  the 
rest,  we  are  among  the  workers  who  have 
been  sleepless  for  their  advantage  ;  so  we 
take  out  our  licence  to  forget  them  for  the 
time  being.  The  only  thing  that  shall 
remind  us  of  them  is  the  red  lamp,  shin- 
ing afar  over  the  apothecary's  door ; 
which,  while  it  does  so,  reminds  us  also 
that  there  is  help  for  them  to  be  had.  I 
see  him  now,  the  pale  blinker  suppressing 
f  61 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

the  conscious  injustice  of  his  anger  at 
being  roused  by  the  apprentice,  and  fumb- 
ling himself  out  of  the  house,  in  hoarse- 
ness and  great-coat,  resolved  to  make  the 
sweetness  of  the  Christmas  bill  indemnify 
him  for  the  bitterness  of  the  moment. 

But  we  shall  be  getting  too  much  into 
the  interior  of  the  houses.  By  this  time 
the  hackney-coaches  have  all  left  the 
stands — a  good  symptom  of  their  having 
got  their  day's  money.  Crickets  are 
heard,  here  and  there,  amidst  the  embers 
of  some  kitchen.  A  dog  follows  us. 
Will  nothing  make  him  "  go  along  "  ? 
We  dodge  him  in  vain ;  we  run ;  we 
stand  and  "  hish  !  "  at  him,  accompanying 
the  prohibition  with  dehortatory  gestures, 
and  an  imaginary  picking  up  of  a  stone. 
We  turn  again,  and  there  he  is  vexing 
our  skirts.  He  even  forces  us  into  an 
angry  doubt  whether  he  will  not  starve,  ir 
we  do  not  let  him  go  home  with  us.  Now 
if  we  could  but  lame  him  without  being 
cruel  ;  or  if  we  were  only  an  overseer,  or 
a  beadle,  or  a  dealer  in  dog-skin  ;  or  a 
62 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

political  economist,  to  think,  dogs  un- 
necessary. Oh  !  come,  he  has  turned  a 
corner,  he  has  gone  :  we  think  we  see 
him  trotting  off  at  a  distance,  thin  and 
muddy,  and  our  heart  misgives  us.  But 
it  was  not  our  fault  ;  we  were  not  "  hish- 
ing "  at  the  time.  His  departure  was 
lucky,  for  he  had  got  our  enjoyments  into 
a  dilemma  ;  our  "  article "  would  not 
have  known  what  to  do  with  him.  These 
are  the  perplexities  to  which  your  sympa- 
thisers are  liable.  We  resume  our  way, 
independent  and  alone  ;  for  we  have  no 
companion  this  time,  except  our  nevcr-to- 
be-forgotten  and  ethereal  companion,  the 
reader.  A  real  arm  within  another's  puts 
us  out  of  the  pale  of  walking  that  is  to 
be  made  good.  It  is  good  already.  A 
fellow-pedestrian  is  company  —  is  the 
party  you  have  left ;  you  talk  and  laugh, 
and  there  is  no  longer  anything  to  be  con- 
tended with.  But  alone,  and  in  bad 
weather,  and  with  a  long  way  to  go,  here 
is  something  for  the  temper  and  spirits  to 
grapple   with    and  turn  to  account ;   and 

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accordingly  we  are  booted  and  buttoned 
up,  an  umbrella  over  our  heads,  the  rain 
pelting  upon  it,  and  the  lamp-light  shining 
in  the  gutters  ;  "  mudshine,"  as  an  artist 
of  our  acquaintance  used  to  call  it,  with  a 
gusto  of  reprobation.  Now,  walk  cannot 
well  be  worse  ;  and  yet  it  shall  be  nothing 
if  you  meet  it  heartily.  There  is  a  plea- 
sure in  overcoming  obstacles  ;  mere  action 
is  something  ;  imagination  is  more  ;  and 
the  spinning  of  the  blood,  and  vivacity  or 
the  mental  endeavour,  act  well  upon  one 
another,  and  gradually  put  you  in  a  state 
of  robust  consciousness  and  triumph. 
Every  time  you  set  down  your  leg  you 
have  a  respect  for  it.  The  umbrella  is 
held  in  the  hand  like  a  roaring  trophy. 

We  are  now  reaching  the  country : 
the  fog  and  rain  are  over  ;  and  we  meet 
our  old  friends  the  watchmen,  staid, 
heavy,  indifferent,  more  coat  than  man, 
pondering,  yet  not  pondering,  old  but  not 
reverend,  immensely  useless.  No  ;  use- 
less they  are  not ;  for  the  inmates  of  the 
houses  think  them  otherwise,  and  in  that 

64 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

imagination  they  do  good.  We  do  not 
pity  the  watchmen  as  we  used.  Old  age 
often  cares  little  for  regular  sleep.  They 
could  not  be  sleeping  perhaps  if  they  were 
in  their  beds  ;  and  certainly  they  would 
not  be  earning.  What  sleep  they  get  is 
perhaps  sweeter  in  the  watch-box, — a 
forbidden  sweet  ;  and  they  have  a  sense 
of  importance,  and  a  claim  on  the  persons 
in-doors,  which,  together  with  the  ampli- 
tude of  their  coating,  and  the  possession 
of  the  box  itself,  make  them  feel  them- 
selves, not  without  reason,  to  be  "some- 
body." They  are  peculiar  and  official. 
Tomkins  is  a  cobbler  as  well  as  they  ; 
but  then  he  is  no  watchman.  He  cannot 
speak  to  "  things  of  night ;  "  nor  bid 
"any  man  stand  in  the  king's  name." 
He  docs  not  get  fees  and  gratitude  from 
the  old,  the  infirm,  and  the  drunken  ;  nor 
"  let  gentlemen  go  ;  "  nor  is  he  "  a  parish- 
man."  The  churchwardens  don't  speak 
to  him.  If  he  put  himself  ever  so  much 
in  the  way  of  "  the  great  plumber,"  he 
would  not  say,  "  How  do  you  find  your- 

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Coaches  and  Coaching 

self,  Tomkins  ?  " — "An  ancient  and  quiet 
watchman."  Such  he  was  in  the  time  of 
Shakespeare,  and  such  he  is  now.  An- 
cient, because  he  cannot  help  it  ;  and 
quiet,  because  he  will  not  help  it,  if  pos- 
sible ;  his  object  being  to  procure  quiet 
on  all  sides,  his  own  included.  For  this 
reason  he  does  not  make  too  much  noise 
in  crying  the  hour,  nor  is  offensively  par- 
ticular in  his  articulation.  No  man  shall 
sleep  the  worse  for  him,  out  of  a  horrid 
sense  of  the  word  "three."  The  sound 
shall  be  three,  four,  or  one,  as  suits  their 
mutual  convenience. 

Yet  characters  are  to  be  found  even 
among  watchmen.  They  are  not  all  mere 
coat,  and  lump,  and  indifference.  By- 
the-way,  what  do  they  think  of  in  general  ? 
How  do  they  vary  the  monotony  of  their 
ruminations  from  one  to  two,  and  from 
two  to  three,  and  so  on  ?  Are  they  com- 
paring themselves  with  the  unofficial 
cobbler ;  thinking  of  what  they  shall 
have  for  dinner  to-morrow  ;  or  what  they 
were  about  six  years  ago  ;  or  that  their 
66 


Coaches  and  Coaching 

lot  is  the  hardest  in  the  world,  as  insipid 
old  people  are  apt  to  think,  for  the  plea- 
sure of  grumbling  ;  or  that  it  has  some 
advantages  nevertheless,  besides  fees  ;  and 
that  if  they  are  not  in  bed,  their  wife  is  ? 

Of  characters,  or  rather  varieties  among 
watchmen,  we  remember  several.  One 
was  a  Dandy  Watchman,  who  used  to 
ply  at  the  top  of  Oxford  Street,  next  the 
park.  We  called  him  the  dandy,  on 
account  of  his  utterance.  He  had  a 
mincing  way  with  it,  pronouncing  the  a 
in  the  word  "  past "  as  it  is  in  hat,  making 
a  little  preparatory  hem  before  he  spoke, 
and  then  bringing  out  his  "  past  ten  "  in  a 
style  of  genteel  indifference  ;  as  if,  upon 
the  whole,  he  was  of  that  opinion. 

Another  was  the  Metallic  Watchman, 
who  paced  the  same  street  towards  Han- 
over Square,  and  had  a  clang  in  his  voice 
like  a  trumpet.  He  was  a  voice  and 
nothing  else  ;  but  any  difference  is  some- 
thing in  a  watchman. 

A  third,  who  cried  the  hour  in  Bedford 
Square,  was  remarkable  in  his  calling  for 

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Coaches  and  Coaching 

being  abrupt  and  loud.  There  was  a 
fashion  among  his  tribe  just  come  up  at 
that  time,  of  omitting  the  words  "past" 
and  "  o'clock,"  and  crying  only  the  num- 
ber of  the  hour.  I  know  not  whether  a 
recollection  I  have  of  his  performance  one 
night  is  entire  matter  of  fact,  or  whether 
any  subsequent  fancies  of  what  might 
have  taken  place  are  mixed  up  with  it ; 
but  my  impression  is,  that  as  I  was  turning 
the  corner  into  the  square  with  a  friend, 
and  was  in  the  midst  of  a  discussion  in 
which  numbers  were  concerned,  we  were 
suddenly  startled,  as  if  in  solution  of  it, 
by  a  brief  and  tremendous  outcry  of — 
One.  This  paragraph  ought  to  have  been 
at  the  bottom  of  the  page,  and  the  word 
printed  abruptly  round  the  corner. 

A  fourth  watchman  was  a  very  singular 
phenomenon,  a  Reading  Watchman.  He 
had  a  book,  which  he  read  by  the  light  of 
his  lantern  ;  and  instead  of  a  pleasant, 
gave  you  a  very  uncomfortable  idea  of 
him.  It  seemed  cruel  to  pitch  amidst  so 
many  discomforts  and  privations  one  who 
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Coaches  and  Coaching 

had  imagination  enough  to  wish  to  be 
relieved  from  them.  Nothing  but  a  slug- 
gish vacuity  befits  a  watchman. 

But  the  oddest  of  all  was  the  Sliding 
Watchman.  Think  of  walking  up  a 
street  in  the  depth  of  a  frosty  winter, 
with  long  ice  in  the  gutters,  and  sleet  over 
head,  and  then  figure  to  yourself  a  sort  of 
bale  of  a  man  in  white  coming  sliding 
towards  you  with  a  lantern  in  one  hand, 
and  an  umbrella  over  his  head.  It  was 
the  oddest  mixture  of  luxury  and  hard- 
ship, of  juvenility  and  old  age  !  But  this 
looked  agreeable.  Animal  spirits  carry 
everything  before  them  ;  and  our  invin- 
cible friend  seemed  a  watchman  for 
Rabelais.  Time  was  run  at  and  butted 
by  him  like  a  goat.  The  slide  seemed  to 
bear  him  half  through  the  night  at  once  ; 
he  slipped  from  out  of  his  box  and  his 
commonplaces  at  one  rush  of  a  merry 
thought,  and  seemed  to  say  "  Every- 
thing's in  imagination  —  here  goes  the 
whole  weight  of  my  office." 

But  we  approach  our  home.  How  still 
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Coaches  and  Coaching 

the  trees !  How  deliciously  asleep  the 
country  !  How  beautifully  grim  and  noc- 
turnal this  wooded  avenue  of  ascent 
against  the  cold  white  sky !  The  watch- 
men and  patrols,  which  the  careful  citizens 
have  planted  in  abundance  within  a  mile 
of  their  doors,  salute  us  with  their  "  Good 
mornings  " — not  so  welcome  as  we  pre- 
tend ;  for  we  ought  not  to  be  out  so  late  ; 
and  it  is  one  of  the  assumptions  of  these 
fatherly  old  fellows  to  remind  us  of  it. 
Some  fowls,  who  have  made  a  strange 
roost  in  a  tree,  flutter  as  we  pass  them — ■ 
another  pull  up  the  hill,  unyielding  ;  a 
few  strides  on  a  level ;  and  there  is  the 
light  in  the  window,  the  eye  of  the  warm 
soul  of  the  house — one's  home.  How 
particular,  and  yet  how  universal,  is  that 
word ;  and  how  surely  does  it  deposit 
every  one  for  himself  in  his  own  nest ! 


70 


Uuod    l  i  a  Vx  n  i\  i 


PRINTED   IN    GREAT    BRITAIN   BY 

WILLIAM    BRENDON    AND    SON,    LIMITED 

PLYMOUTH 


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